ᴛᴀʟᴋ sʜɪᴛ, ɢᴇᴛ ᴡʜɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ.

@dragooned​

early morning sunrise, rising starkly across a no-man’s land forgotten in time. it sits between nothing and nowhere yet remains home to prospects, subjects, kids. they scrounge about as if this were a game rather than war, ignorant and ready to break. (   ‘   find me the best   ’               you’ll get them, in time.  )

           the softened rays do nothing to abate the crimson slashed across the ground, shining brightly against the sand, dirt, rubble, and staining the mouths, knuckles, and knees of the others. ‘  again.  ’   he calls, voice roughened with vestiges of sleep. ‘  keep fighting. do you think i’ll go this easy?  ’

    How could they tell the difference?  At such a young age, war was sometimes little more than a concept to them.  A reality they are destined to face, to live and die at the hand of, and yet, the await to step into its maw with arms open, eager.  Consumed by the lust of glory, of redemption to mankind.  Of  revenge  for the wrongs they’ve faced.  The power to  END  whoever crosses them next. 

     They know little more than the steel trap of their base  ——  the breeding ground of warriors placed within a toxic wasteland, a red planet never meant for humanity’s footstep.  Metal walls keep them from storms of debris, housing a hurricane of its own indoors.  

     Mason spits out whatever blood has pooled against his lips , digging rough fingertips to the ground beneath.  His young chest heaves with exertion.  Yet there is so much  more  in store.  He lunges again, this time with a biotic crash of his whips before charging his  teacher,  still getting the hang of his weapons.  He fights too aggressively.  Too recklessly.   

      “ YOU ARE GOING to hurt yourself if you continue.” Or maybe he’ll pop the blood vessels in his eyes, Kazar muses. Though despite his disdain, he doesn’t laugh or claim victory when the Vanguard finally laments. Instead, he sounds much like a doting mentor when he speaks– “ It is an incredibly powerful biotic move, and many are not capable of manifesting the sheer power and energy it requires. ”

   “ WHATEVER it is, I can do it. ”  He sounds like the child he is, frustrated by his own limitations. He’d always been taught to forgo the idea of barriers. To push himself beyond his capabilities, even if it did mean pain, or death. Phoenixes weren’t taught self-control. His fingers clutch where fabric meets armor plating against his knuckles. There’s a long, long hesitation.

        ...... ...... ...... ...... ......

….n…… no ???

This doesn’t sound…. safe for work. Or, like, the general public.

   “ I was never meant to be safe for the general public. ”

A gauntlet drilled into the radial bone of his arm flickers with life. This apparently isn’t the first time he’s done this. A stream of electricity rides down his side — a bare hand almost grips on, already scarred with burns from an obvious past, but remember to keep their distance while un-gloved. 

that’s really…. uh…. what’s the word I’m looking for… starts with a ‘K’

Why a whip specifically ?

Kprejudice. 

[ a brisk laugh ] then again, I’m not one to talk.

    “ AND IF YOU were a million years old, you wouldn’t be nearly as annoying. ” Or maybe he would be. It’s hard to tell, really. Kazar peers closer at him. “ You aren’t an adept. ” He would know; Mason never shuts up about being a vanguard. “ You’re one of the obstinate ones. ”

   It would take more than a few millennia to exhaust how infuriating the Vanguard can be.   “ Excuse me?  ”  He’d roll up his sleeves if his armor had any.   “ I might not be an Adept, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do it. ”

    KAZAR DOESN’T DODGE the book, and it clacks against his head and falls to the ground. Each eye on the right side of his head squints, blinking unevenly. Of course he’d do that.

With what sounds like a snort, the Collector turns away, the unimpressed atmosphere radiating off of him. He glances over his shoulder, and speaks in the most Prothean-y tone possible: “ I should have figured. The biotic skill of a primitive is always limited. ”

    PRIMITIVE ? Forget the specifics, and how begrudgingly accurate the term might be in a literal sense. It strikes that familiar chord within, and he tries harder. Harder.

Well… you can always make yourself look better than the competition by eliminating the competition until they have no choice but to give you a raise because you’re the only one who hasn’t had their head mailed to a C-Sec precinct? 

Why would they not like you. Have they never seen you with your helmet off?

I’ve thought that plan out before, once. But I’m pretty sure they would catch on. A whole lot of profiling going on and heads usually turn to the ex-Cerb before anyone else when something goes wrong. 

    And most of the time I didn’t even commit the crime. Most. 

   “ ARE YOU EVEN able to make a flare? ” As always, despite being somebody without a face, Kazar shoots Mason a disdainful and judgmental look. “ I doubt it. Show me. And the impact of a charge doesn’t count. ”

@dragooned 

     “ Of course I fucking am. ”   He isn’t entirely sure if he is. But he’s not about to let some glittery insect tell him what he can and can’t do. 

Sounds like you need a raise, then. Are you good enough at your job to negotiate a raise?

No one is better at my job than me.

When ya stopped buying me drinks

     When did you  STOP  following me?

    “No, I don’t.” It’s said less like a defensive remark and more like a factorial statement, leaving no room to argue.. As always. If there is one constant, it is, of course, a Prothean’s unrelenting sense of snobbishness. 

A hand lifts, smacking away a stray Seeker that flits about his head, crouching down next to the human and still managing to loom over him. “Are you wounded?”

                                “ Yeah, you do. ”

        So what if he knew the difference between Kazar and every other collector out there, and still fired his gun. Not like it was really going to hurt him. It’s the seeker that makes him ꜰʟɪɴᴄʜ, jerking a bit to the side but quickly composing himself, brushing excess dirt and entrails ( ᴀs ɪꜰ ɪᴛ’s ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴄʟᴇᴀɴ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ) from his chestpiece.

@dragooned

  Three hours and many corpses strung along his wake, Kazar finally rounds the corner to Mason’s small nook in the wall, snapping his eyes shut and throwing up a biotic barrier at the sudden spray of energy that hits his face a la the Carbine held in the Phoenix’s hands.

    “First of all, I would have thought myself distinct enough to not warrant getting shot in the face.”

      Eʏᴇs ʀᴏʟʟ ʜᴀʀᴅ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ he feels they might launch out of his head. There’s something bitter between his gritted teeth but he holds it back. He’s learned better by now. He’s thankful Kazar can’t see a small smirk underneath his face plate. He’d be fun to fry.

   The locust is big, probably the length of his forearm. He doesn’t want to imagine how large its wingspan is, or if its leg wasn’t tucked neatly before the leap. As soon as it leaves the ground his Reegar fires, obliterating it in seconds. Effective, but hardly gives him a sense of safety. 

   He doesn’t come off as particularly brave more than just looking out for his own ass, stomping out anything that comes near him. His boots kick up sand and shrapnel as one stomps out a bug, his ankle and foot covered in its guts. As he looks up and sees them starting to gather, to climb up to the surface and reach out for him, he runs. In any other case, he would have left her behind. He doesn’t know why he grabbed her wrist. Maybe knowing there’s someone else that might kill them. Or maybe his name being shouted over and over.

   His head spins to look in the direction of the building, nearly tripping as he skids to a stop. He chases after the sanctuary, not as graceful with his landing and slamming his shoulder into the door, denting a bit before he can turn and look at the incoming invasion. It’s impossible to describe how many. Easily dozens, maybe more. His breathing picks up and his chest goes so tight he can hardly get oxygen. His suit starts to feel way, way too tight like he’s constricted of air and space. Anxiety is never usually an issue for the dragoon, but when it is, it strikes hard. 

   A locust slams directly into the barrier in front of his face and he flinches, hard, almost falling back against the building. He doesn’t know if he’s going to explode with rage or just shoot himself in the head at this point; then, he hears her words. The door. Get inside. 

   His patience is low with the omni-tool as his shaking, gloved fingers struggle to hack the security lock. Finally, he’s fed up. He pulls his baton off his belt and jabs it into the creased opening of the door, grabbing the frame and pushing with all his might, every muscle in his body thick and hard with power, biotics even helping to shove the sealed metal door open. It’s stuck but he figures he can push it back in place once they’re inside, quickly stumbling himself in and turning to face Cenya. If anything, they’ve pissed off the hoard. He rips his helmet off (the surface luckily breathable) and lets it roll across the floor, staring past her barrier. Beads of sweat trail down his cheek, his eyes still wide, his rapid, shallow gasps for air making him hyperventilate a bit.

   He activates his whips, finally letting out a call. “Mᴏᴠᴇ!” 

   Mason doesn’t give her much time before he gathers all of the excess energy in his body, building it into one hard sᴍᴀsʜ of his whips, the blast launching past her and into the swarm, watching them part like the red sea as explosions set off, green-tinted entrails spewing everywhere in a gorey mess.